As I Sleep
by LonelyBibliophile
Summary: A redux of Twilight from Bella's point of view, with a focus on the creepy tendencies of Edward, our resident stalker.
1. Chapter 1

_Obligatory Disclaimer-type-thing: All these characters? Stephenie Meyer's. I am not making money off of this. Now, let's get on with the story, shall we?_

_

* * *

_Sh. I'm sleeping. I'm sleeping I'm sleeping I'm sleeping there's nothing there in the dark go to sleep.

And then there's that noise again. A light rustling, as of fabric. An ever-so-slight creak of the floorboards. Like a footstep.

Cold fear wriggles up my spine. There's someone in my room.

But that's nonsense. I'm seventeen, for God's sake. Way too old to be scared of the dark. That noise? You've got a pair of jeans hanging on the back of the chair that your dad bought special for your arrival. And your attic bedroom (romantic, you said, unique, when your dad said you could pick either that or the guest room) is pretty old, and there's a draft, isn't there?

So that's it. I'm going to sleep. There is no one in my room.

* * *

I sleep, but I don't sleep well. I can't shake the feeling that, despite all my rationalization, there was someone (or something) in my room. I was in and out of sleep all night. And it shows.

Great. Just great for my second day at school.

I manage, though. Thank God the people here are pretty nice, if a little too helpful. And I got over the initial awkward introductions of yesterday, so now all I have to do is act bland and uninteresting. Which isn't exactly that difficult. Until last period, that is.

There's a boy in this class who doesn't think I notice him staring. It's not a good stare. Every couple of seconds he looks away, but then his eyes gravitate back towards me. Maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I can feel the goosebumps pricking up and down my arms and the sweat forming on my forehead. I swallow nervously, then catch myself. Clamp down on the fear. Don't let it control you. Ignore him, for now. He's just some creep. Pay attention to the teacher, droning out the phases of mitosis. Cell division. That's what's important here. Don't let him scare you.

He won't let up. That look. It's like a cross between rage and hate and, well, lust. There. I said it. This isn't good. My dad gave me a can of pepper spray yesterday, but I was too embarrassed to take it to school. It's on my desk, all the way at home. Not good. Breathe. All you have to do is cross the parking lot to your car, get in, and lock the doors. Then you'll be safe. Go. Hurry up. He's watching you.

I rush out of there like nobody's business and not-exactly-run to my badass pickup truck, another gift from my dad (he's awesome, by the way; my mom and stepdad flat out refused when I asked them for a means of transportation other than my beat-up bike). Get in, slam door, deep breath. Yeah. My truck's awesome. I've named her Rosie. Seems to fit.

The drive home is uneventful, the evening just the same. I do my homework, the obedient little schoolgirl that I am, and heat up some leftovers for dinner. My dad's working late; he's a cop, which is cool. I tell myself that I'm not afraid of going to sleep. Not afraid at all.

I dawdle and delay on the Internet. I watch some TV. It's too quiet here, nothing like Phoenix at all. I find myself yawning. Might as well get some sleep. Tomorrow's another day, and I'm not afraid.

* * *

And here I am again. Awake, in the dark, curled up under my blanket, and desperately trying to convince myself that there is nothing to be afraid of.

The glow from the lamp on my bedside table only makes things worse, casting everything in uncertain shadows. And there's that noise, the same one as last night. Rustlerustlecrrreeeeeak.

…crrrreeeeeak.

…crrreeeeEAK.

…crreeeEEAK.

Oh shit. Don't look don't look whatever it is is right there at the side of your bed; if you open your eyes you'll see it staring. Don't look.

But I have to look. It's like my mom says: you gotta look, or else you'll never know it was nothing after all. I swallow the fear and force my stubborn eyes open.

No one's there.


	2. Chapter 2

_Stephenie Meyer owns all of these characters. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.  
_

_

* * *

_It's morning. Craaaaap.

I pretty much fall out of bed, I'm so tired. No sleep at all last night. Every time I tried, there came that inexplicable fear: the racing heartbeat, the cold sweat, the – well, you know. That feeling. I know someone was in my room last night.

I should tell my dad. I should, I know I should, but I…I can't. I just can't. I'm seventeen. Soon I'll be going off to college where I'll have to take care of myself. And I can take care of this problem.

Of course, right now, I have to take care of this headache.

* * *

My dad's cooking breakfast as I come down the stairs. The gurgling of the coffee machine is music to my ears. And…oh, is that the sizzle of a frying pan I hear? Fantastic.

"Breakfast time, Bells!" My dad is very much a morning person. Hell, he's even _whistling_.

"Morning," I mutter, trying to sound as if I got a normal amount of sleep.

He stops. "You don't look so good. Had a bad night?"

Cue an incomprehensible teenage grunt from me as I help myself to breakfast. "Yeah. You know, still getting used to school and all that."

He shrugs, scratches his mustache, and says, "Well, Bells, if there're any problems, you make sure you tell me." He glances at his watch. "Gotta go, kiddo. Duty calls." He ruffles my hair like I'm six again.

And there he goes. If you ask me, he's way too cheerful to be a cop.

* * *

Right. That is _it. _You know that guy in my Bio class? He's still staring at me. Same creepy I-have-you-now-my-pretty look in his eyes.

It might just be the lack of sleep talking, but I really want to punch him in the face and then zap him with the pepper spray in my bag. Fortunately, my mind decides that this course of action is a little too extreme, so I bide my time until after class. I take notes on genetic structures and try to make a plan.

Crap. He's still staring. Doublecrap. I'm blushing. What the hell are you doing, blood vessels?

Notes. Right. Plan.

The bell rings. Time for lunch, thank God. But first…

"You. Hey, you." I tap his shoulder, adrenaline buzzing around my ears. "What's your problem?" I hope I come across as rude, but the most I can really manage is mildly intrusive.

His expression is completely different when he turns around. Bland, generic innocence. "I have no _idea_ what you're talking about," he says.

Aaaand there goes my self-confidence. Coward. A simple denial has you afraid again. Look at him. Lazy, self-absorbed eyes. Aristocratic features. Meticulously styled bed-head. What an asshole. Pretty, but a complete and total asshole. And despite that, he has you cowering like some little maggot.

I recover a bit. Direct suspicion away from myself. "You look so angry in that class. What, you don't like Mr. Brennan?"

"Ah, so you're looking at me, then." He's got this stupid little half-grin on his face as he sticks a hand out. "Edward Cullen."

"Yeah, okay. Way to answer the question. Bella Swan." I don't shake his hand.

"Miss Bella, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the outside world for lunch? It's a senior privilege." Wow. Is he really trying that with me? Really?

I snort. "To put it plainly, no. I'll see you later." As my mom says, a nice short reply will always confuse the bullshitters. I'm feeling much better. Less scared, for one thing.

I see his expression flicker. There's that look again, the subtle twitch of the eyebrows, a clenching of teeth. He recovers, but by that time, I'm already turning to walk away.

Right. I need more coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

_Again, I own nothing except for the plot. _

* * *

The rest of the day goes well. All that adrenaline plus the coffee has left me with quite a bit of energy, so I can pay attention in class. English class is fantastic; we've started _The Scarlet Letter_. I've never read it before, but now that I've started, I really can't imagine why I never picked it up. Math is, well, math. Functions and how to identify their equations. Fortunately, I've got a buddy. Mike Newton, my resident Savior of Precalculus A. Really knows his stuff (and how to explain it without making my head explode).

I stay a few hours late to go over some French tenses with Angela Weber, who's supposed to be helping me catch up to the accelerated program here in Forks. We somehow end up spending the time drawing pictures of giraffes with monocles. It helped, though; I now know that "_Le girafe ira au café_" describes an action in the future.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty good about my third day of junior year when I get into my truck. I'm even whistling a tune, mangling Debussy's Clair de Lune and not caring at all.

And then my poor Rosie, my poor, old, rusty Rosie decides that today's not a good day to start.

Damn it! Really? Of all days, Rosie, you pick today? A few moments of "Aarrgh"-ing in frustration leaves me leaning on her and listing possible alternatives:

1 – I call my dad. This could work, but what if he's in the middle of something important? Like busting that child pornography ring apparently based right here in Forks. He mentioned it the night I got here, when I asked how exciting his job really was. I can't get in the way of that.

2 – I walk home. What are you, nuts? Home is at least 10 miles away, maybe more. I could make it, but not before dark, and I really don't want to be out walking at night (even here in Forks; my pepper spray means nothing if I'm too scared to use it).

3 – I find Mike and ask him for a r – damn. There he goes.

4 – I call a mechanic, or something. Yeah. I don't know the number of any mechanics here in Forks. (I do, however, have the number of Uncle Rodney, who's a mechanic in Phoenix.)

5 – Maybe I should just call my dad. That seems to be the easiest w –

Interrupted mid-thought by a discreet "ahem." I look up. Damn. It's him, in some shiny silver car that looks exactly like the one my grandma owns.

"In need of some assistance, Miss Bella?" he asks. "A ride, perhaps?"

Oh, crap. That icy finger of fear edges back into my mind. I am _not _getting in the car with him, the creeper. "Nope," I chirp, wincing a little at my voice. "I was just calling my dad to give me a ride, because, uh, my car isn't starting. It's okay. Don't worry about me. Anyway, I don't take rides with strangers." Good. Hopefully he'll go away. Go away. Crap, he's getting out of the car.

"He's not going to answer, Bella."

Oh, no. My wildly vacillating imagination is jumping from one terrible scenario to the next. I reach for the pepper spray, trying to look inconspicuous.

He must have seen my momentary panic, because he backs away a bit, saying, "Sorry. That didn't sound right. But you don't know…?"

A hook. And I take the bait. I can't help it. Maybe something's happened to my dad. Crap, I hope not. I slowly shake my head. My throat's gone dry.

"He's in the hospital, Bella. My father is a doctor there, and he likes to keep me in the loop, since I'm planning to be premed. He sent me a text saying that the chief of police has been shot, and I should get down there to observe the surgery. I was on my way when I saw you." He gestures toward his car. "Look, he's in critical condition. We need to go."

What.

My dad. Shot? No. There's – there has to be a trick. I blink a few times. I have to make sure. "Let me talk to your dad," I say. " Call him."

He frowns, saying, "I'm not sure he can receive any calls now." But he whips a Blackberry out of his pocket, dials, and waits.

The seconds tick interminably by.

"Hello? Carlisle, Chief Swan's daughter is here with me…no, they didn't tell her; she stayed after school….She wants to talk to you." He offers the phone to me.

I take it. Crap. My hands are shaking. This isn't a trick. My dad – he's really been shot. "H-hello?" Don't stammer. I take a deep breath. "Is it true?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Swan. Your father has taken two bullets, one to the shoulder and one to the chest. We've assessed the damage, and he should pull through, but I need to go now, okay? We'll speak later." _Click_.

I take a deep breath as I hand the phone back. "Okay. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

_Now I can say that I own _nearly_ nothing, since there's one original character so far. The rest belong to Stephenie Meyer. Now, onto the story._

_

* * *

_I need to focus on something. Anything. Anything that's not my dad, with his cheerful whistling and proudly trimmed mustache, gray-faced and bleeding under the fluorescent lights….Okay. No. Don't go there. Okay.

Right. The car. This fancy silver granny car. We're driving way too fast. I should let go of the pepper spray, but I can't seem to pry my fingers away. Underneath the shock, there's a tinge of fear. He's got that look on his face again. Scary, scary, creepy, creepy. No. Talk. Talk. Say something, take your mind off the sound of gunshots, the bang and the – no. Talk.

"Okay. What's wrong with you? Why are you so creepy? Right, I know you stare at me in Bio, so stop. I've got pepper spray. I could spray you, like spraying a lizard, right in the eyes. Stop it. Crap, I'm babbling, aren't I?" Deep breaths, deep breaths.

He glances at me all wide-eyed and concerned. "You're in shock, Bella. Relax. We'll be at the hospital soon."

Ah, clever evasion, my friend. Focus, focus on the car. It's spotless, with shiny wood paneling and an expensive-looking sound system. The seats are leather. It's a pretty fancy car.

It's getting dark. It's too quiet. I clear my throat. "Any music? Anything? What do you go for?" My voice is _way _too high-pitched right now. I need something recognizable. "Any Bach in here?"

He doesn't even look away from the road, but says, "Chopin. Just press play." I can see he's gritting his teeth. Shit. I do not feel safe in here. Here I am, on the way to my maybe mortally wounded dad, in the car with a guy who's probably some sort of serial killer or something!

Relax, Bella. You're blowing things _way _out of proportion again. Let go of that pepper spray, press play, and relax. He's just taking you to the hospital. Ignore his creepy looks, the ones that make you want to jump out of the car right now. The police should call any minute now about your dad…just listen to some Chopin. Panicking isn't helping anyone.

I concede. I play the CD. Chopin's Revolutionary Etude. Hm. Okay. This is fine.

And then it repeats. The next track is the same etude. Maybe played by someone else, but the same piece. And the next track. And the next. Relax, Bella. Maybe he just really likes it. It's no indicator of craziness.

Three more Revolutionary Etudes later, we're at the hospital. Thank God. I can breathe again.

* * *

They told me to go home, that my dad would be fine and I could see him in the morning.

So I did. I didn't want to, but just sitting in the waiting room wasn't doing any good. A cop came around to talk to me as I sat and stared at the lights and tiles.

"Hey. I'm Officer Ryan. You're the chief's daughter, correct? Got here even before the official call went out."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Some doctor's son gave me a ride. How's my dad?"

He sighed. "He's doing alright. They've got him stable now. The one in his shoulder shattered some bone, so he might need additional surgery, but the one to the chest missed all the important stuff. Damn lucky, too." Here he paused and looked at me. "You should go home, kid. Get some sleep. You can come back in the morning, see how the chief's doing." He stood up and straightened his shirt. "Here, need a ride?"

I nodded. Creepy guy from Bio – what was his name again? Edward, right – had taken off right after we arrived.

The ride home was uneventful. Officer Ryan didn't say anything until his "Good night. Take care of yourself, okay?" when I got out of the car.

And now I'm sitting on the floor in middle of the living room, listening to a CD of Bach's preludes and fugues and playing solitaire. I can't seem to bring myself to do any homework. Tomorrow's Saturday, anyway. I need to get my car fixed and find a way to get to the hospital. My dad's got a list of phone numbers on the fridge; there has to be something there.

But for now, I'll get some sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_These characters? Not mine. Not even a little bit. This chapter's a bit shorter than the others, for which I apologize.  
_

_

* * *

_I'm floating in that halfway junction, not exactly asleep, but not really awake, either. I nestle further into the couch. Mmm…sleep.

But suddenly, a sound. A ragged _hhhsss_ of air. Like a breath.

I hear it again. Closer. Regular. Like a heartbeat. I have to ignore it. I cleave to the belief that if I'm asleep, it can't get me. Ignore the trembling feeling, the dry throat, the terrible, terrible buzzing of _Oh God what if it gets me oh God no_ in the back of my mind. I can't get up to face whatever it is; the fear presses down and _oh shit it's right there_ _breathing breathing breathing_…

I'm not a screamer I'm not, I won't scream you can't make me –

Suddenly, something cold brushes my cheek, a momentary caress of pure terror.

My eyes snap open.

There's no one there.

The sudden evaporation of fear leaves me utterly and completely alone.

* * *

I get a few hours of sleep when the sun is safely up, but who knows if it's enough. Everything seems better when the sun's out, though.

Right. It's Saturday. I hope my dad's okay. But first, coffee. Can't think right without it.

As I sip from my green mug of caffeinated heaven, I see the list of phone numbers on the side of the fridge. Above the numbers is a message: _Bella – there's a number here for every possible emergency ever. Take your pick._ And then a smiley face.

My dad will be okay. He's fine. He's stable. Right. What would he do in a situation like this? Hm. Right. Think methodically.

I scan the list of numbers for a mechanic, or anything of the sort. Aha! Gotcha.

_Jacob Black – electrician, mechanic, plumber, etc._

Hopefully, Jacob Black can fix my truck. I dial the number.

"…yeah, it's under the thing – Hello?

I clear my throat. "Hi. It's Bella Swan, Chief Swan's daughter. Um. Your number's here on the list as a mechanic, and my truck isn't starting, so - "

I hear a chuckle on the other end, then: "So you're calling about the old rustbucket, then." A pause, and I hear someone else saying something. Another pause. "Oh. Crap. Is your dad okay? I mean, he's in the hospital, right?"

Damn. Another reminder. Okay. He's okay, going to be fine. Right. "He's stable now. But I need my truck fixed so I can go see him. The problem is, though, well, it's at my school, in the parking lot. So…could you possibly go and pick it up?" Wow. Could I _be_ any more awkward?

"Oh, yeah, sure. Want me to come by and pick you up, too? It's on the way. And I could give you a ride to the hospital if you want." This Jacob Black is definitely a morning person, too. You can tell he's already been up since at least six.

The offer sounds good, though, so I say, "Okay. Sounds good."

"Great! I'll be there in ten minutes." _Click_.


End file.
